The Oncoming Storm
by FionaTailynn
Summary: One moment The Oncoming Storm was there, the next he was gone. Now Sherlock only wants to know one more thing: Who is the mysterious bow tie man? But as desire for knowledge grows into obsession and obsession grows into sentimentality, Sherlock is faced with what might be his greatest opponent of all: Love. SherlockxEleven
1. The Oncoming Storm

_**A/N: Hey! :D Welcome to my maybe last Wholock story. It is written in honor of the 11th Doctor (even if he isn't often present, as you will notice, this story is **_**all_ about him). I wrote it in fear that the 12th Doctor does not work with Wholock and I only had until Christmas to write for my favourite Doctor 3 I just want to say that i personally do not ship Sheleven as I like to call it but wrote this because I thought it'd be a very intersting theme. Reviews make better writers! :) Next chapter to be posted soon!_**

His cup of hot tea was shaking, and Sherlock looked aside from the microscope to watch as the ripples in the beverage started growing faster and closer together by the second. At first he ignored it, focusing on the Petri dish but when the whole room began shaking so strongly that he was unable to look into the lens clearly, Sherlock got suspicious. He got up and looked around the kitchen of 221B, trying to find the source of the rumbling. It was almost like an earthquake, but earthquakes didn't happen in London. He looked around and saw, as his many test tubes that were scattered over the counter and kitchen island shook, wobbling steadily to the edge. Sherlock turned to the living room of the flat when he felt wind emerging from it, though he hadn't left a window open. Just then, a loud, wheezing noise filled the flat, and from behind him, he heard glass break, and liquid pour. The foul smell of smoke, caused by the flammable chemicals he had preserved air-tightly stung his nose. Of course, the consulting detective would've done something, if in that moment, the wheezing hadn't become even louder and a giant, blue police box wasn't in the process of materializing next to his coffee table. He stared in confusion, trying to fit the fact that the object in front of him challenged all that he had learned up until then in his head. The wheezing, the rumbling and the wind stopped. Sherlock eyed the impossible box with his stern and clear gaze, his feet nailed into the wooden floor. He took a deep breath, rationalizing that it couldn't be real, and stepped forwards to the police box. He stretched out one hand, just to make sure it wasn't possible to touch it. Reaching for the door, Sherlock stiffened his fingers just before they would come in contact with the wood. That is if there _was_ any wood. Which there wasn't.  
In that moment, the door opened. The high-functioning sociopath found himself about an inch away from the face of a man.  
"Who are you?" The time it had taken Sherlock to ask, the mysterious figure had walked past him to the kitchen and closed the door behind him. Sherlock watched him carefully and quickly wanted to open the door to the blue box, but when he pulled on the very real knob it had already locked.  
"Hmmf," he mumbled to himself and turned back to the intruder.  
"I said who are you," he ordered. The man in front of him was wearing a dark coat and black trousers. He revealed a bow tie and grey waistcoat hidden under the tweed once he turned around. The odd-looking man had dark brown, medium-length hair, and a warm and welcoming, yet very worried looking face.  
"When and where am I?" he asked, concerned, looking around the flat disoriented.  
Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows at him. The man turned around and then looked at him expectantly. Sherlock said nothing. He lifted his arms up.  
"When and where am I?"  
"What on Earth do you mean with 'when'?" Sherlock said, clearly put off track.  
"Earth, 'kay, thanks, _little_ bit more specific though, please… and you _still_ didn't tell me when." He started pacing up and down the entryway between the kitchen and the sitting room.  
Sherlock gave up on trying to find answers immediately, understanding that whoever this man was, he would be more cooperative if he received his answers first.  
"You're in 221B Baker Street, London, 2013."  
The man stopped pacing and looked at him carefully, as if he'd suddenly recognized that address.  
"London, England?" he asked gingerly.  
"Yes."  
"What was your name again?"  
"Sherlock Holmes." There was a brief pause. The man gave him a suspicious look and took a step closer. He then pulled out a metal device, which lit up the moment he pressed a button and pointed it at the consulting detective. Sherlock first thought it was some kind of threat, but soon he realized that the hand-held, metal object had no impact on him. A part of the device snapped up as the man in tweed retracted it and exchanged looking at Sherlock and it.  
"That's not possible..." he whispered. Sherlock's curiosity rose higher by the second.  
"What is?"  
"You are."  
"What do you mean, I'm impossible?!"  
"I'm in the wrong place," the man said looking around nervously. Sherlock raised his eyebrows.  
"Why are you in the wrong place?... Who are you?!"  
Again Sherlock asked as the dark-haired man ran across the room and opened the blue box with a key from his pocket. He ran into it and closed the door. Sherlock sprinted and banged his fists against the door as the wheezing began again.  
"Wait! Wait! Who _are_ you?!" he yelled through the wood, hoping the man on the other end would hear him and not just leave. The blue box disappeared and Sherlock, who was leaning against it, tripped forward. Quickly he re-took his posture and looked up at the ceiling.  
"Who are you?!" he yelled twice as loudly as before.

Suddenly, the wheezing sound and the wind returned, and the blue box re-appeared, precisely where it had been before. The door opened again and the same man as before leaned into him and carefully made out every detail of the detective's face; his icy blue eyes, his alabaster skin, his dark brown locks. He only said four words:  
"I'm The Oncoming Storm." And with that, the door closed once more and the police box dematerialized, leaving Sherlock once again alone in his gloomy flat.

That was the first time.


	2. Who are you?

He sat on the rug staring at where the box had been for many hours. Making a circular motion, Sherlock stroked the slightly flattened threads, replaying the entire encounter with the strange man in his mind.  
What was he doing? Why wasn't he possible? What did "The Oncoming Storm" mean? Where did he come from? What did that green device do? How could that blue box just be there and then not in so little time?  
Sherlock had never had so many unanswerable questions echo through his head before. All this illogic just overwhelmed his brain too much; he couldn't come up with any rationalizations. It was the most frustrating thing he had ever experienced in his life. His eyes closed shut as he retrieved to his mind palace to search for some answers.  
"Sherlock, I'm home!"  
Well, tried to retrieve.

His eyes opened, as he turned his head around to face his flat mate, not bothering to get up from the ground. John Watson was just taking off his black coat, shaking a little of the raindrops off it and hanging it up. It was a dull, boring site, and yet Sherlock couldn't help but watch because at least it made him forget _him_. John turned around and found his partner sitting on the floor. He raised an eyebrow but said nothing and walked passed him to the kitchen, Sherlock's gaze carefully watching his every move. John was just about to go through the entry way when he let out a huge sigh, lifted his arms up in exasperation and turned back to the consulting detective.  
"What the hell did you do to the kitchen?!" Sherlock didn't understand at first.  
_The test tubes, oh.__  
_He didn't know what to say. Wasn't it also John's business if someone had somehow parked a huge blue police box in the middle of their living room? Maybe John would even have some vital clue for what had just happened. It seemed highly unlikely, but he was stumped. Wouldn't it be possible that on the rare occasion he was, his friend wasn't? However, Sherlock didn't want to tell John. He wanted to be the only person who knew what those marks on the carpet were from and why the test tubes had all broken. He wanted "The Oncoming Storm" to be his secret.  
"I... I wanted to see if my laboratory could withstand an earthquake." He got up and walked up to his friend. Sherlock let his eyes travel from John's small, round pupils over to the kitchen, which had glass splinters all over the floor and smelt strongly of smoke. He could sense that John was containing his anger, like a volcano about to erupt. The blonde man blinked for a longer time than necessary, took a deep breath, and then turned to Sherlock.  
"Sherlock..."  
"Hmmm?" the taller man asked innocently.  
"What the hell were you thinking?! Come on, Sherlock, you must've been pretty damn sure this would happen!" He pointed at the burn marks on the floor. But Sherlock, simply ignored the doctor, and went to his room. The glass crunched under his slippers, as he slightly slouched between the counter and the isle.  
"What? You expect me to clean this up for you?" John pointed at the mess. Sherlock heard him but kept on walking to the corridor.  
"_Sherlock!_" Bitterly the detective turned around.  
"I'll take care of it, I promise but first I need to go to my mind palace." John considered negotiating more, but then decided this was the best he was going to get from his flat mate.  
"Fine... Fine!" He said and turned around.  
"Wait!" came from behind the blonde man. He turned around to face his flat mate again.  
"What?" His tone was clearly frustrated.  
"Have you ever heard of 'The Oncoming Storm'?" John thought a little.  
"No." Sherlock's mouth curved into something that might've been a frown then turned away, heading for his room.

He sat on his bed, his eyes closed, breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth. This form of meditation brought him into focus, and soon he was back in his mind palace. Sherlock searched all the main stash drawers for any files on "The Oncoming Storm", but came out of the archive of the palace empty handed. He wondered about the building he'd made up, searching every inch for anything that had something to do with "The Oncoming Storm". Nothing. Sherlock double-checked the archive then ran through the entire place again. Not even a trace. He then looked for any photos of the odd, green device "The Oncoming Storm" was holding onto. Again, nothing. After those hopeless attempts, Sherlock tried one more thing: "Blue Police Box"; Bingo.  
He found several files about boxes, precisely like the one he'd seen, which were in use in the sixties like public phone booths reserved for emergency calls. However, none of these police boxes were able to simply appear and disappear anywhere.

He'd spent hours in his palace, just triple checking every drawer, looking for something that could possibly explain to him who this man, who had only been a part of his life for a few hours, was, and why he had come. None of his oh so many queries had been solved and he was still nowhere. He wanted to meet that man again and ask him how the police box could just appear, ask him what about him was impossible and what his device did.

He wanted to see him a second time.


	3. Untraceable

Days passed, nothing happened. Well, nothing except Sherlock tracking two murderers down and the milk running out several times. It was odd; normally that would've been sufficient to entertain Sherlock, but since his encounter with "The Oncoming Storm" everything seemed so dull and mundane. Every spare minute of his time, he was looking for more information on the stranger in the waistcoat and bow tie.  
He researched him on the Internet, but there were very few results that featured the words 'oncoming' and 'storm' and when they did, these were not titles of mysterious men, but news of actual oncoming storms in Central America or South-East Asia. He spent hours looking at faces, seeing if just by any chance his bow tie man would be on some photograph. Sherlock, filled with hope, searched for any device that could detect whether someone was telling the truth, but none of which looked anything like the metal cylinder the bow tie man had pointed at him. He tried to find out whether those police call boxes were in any way related to transportation. When the Internet proved itself unhelpful, Sherlock started telling John that he was going to Bart's to work on a case on his own, so that he could go to the British Library and research the nameless man. What he had figured out by now was that "The Oncoming Storm" couldn't be his name. The man had told him that to put him at ease, however, Sherlock was fairly sure that the bow tie man hadn't invented that title either.  
He spent the entire opening hours of the library cracking open book after book, still finding nothing that could get him any further in understanding what had happened a week before. It was as if he were the only person in the world that had ever heard of him.  
At times he talked himself into the idea that he had in fact imagined the whole thing but two things stood against that: a) Sherlock did not hallucinate and b) John had seen the damage caused by the blue box as well. It wasn't an earthquake. That was sure. He had even made sure it couldn't have been.  
Never before had he wanted to know something as much as now, never before had he tried to find something out with such passion and never before had his researches been so useless. He felt that if he could find out just his name, maybe then he'd leave it at that.  
But _maybe_ he wouldn't need to look; maybe the man would appear again on his own. He had to be somewhere on Earth... Then again, the man had thanked him for telling him he was on Earth. But still, if the bow tie man knew that Earth existed, chances were he'd return. Maybe he'd return to 221B, or someone else would see him. Someone with whom Sherlock could come in contact, and find out more about him. He wanted to know more so badly. He wanted to know "The Oncoming Storm's" real name, know why he called himself that, why he wore a bow tie, what his green device could do...

All he wanted was to find out something about him.


	4. Absence

Days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months, and Sherlock found something curious happening to him. At first he pushed it away, because these were the things that he had sworn to himself he wouldn't let happen. But they did, and before long, they took over:  
The thought of the bow tie man would make him strangely uncomfortable in a comfortable way. He would be undeniably happy that the man existed, yet irreversibly sad at the thought that he was not here. Sherlock didn't know enough about human emotions to understand from the beginning what was going on. He started accepting less and less cases. As the gap between the now and his meeting with "The Oncoming Storm" grew larger and larger, the murders became more boring and one-sided. His job was grey, his life was grey, everything was grey, except for _him_. He shone in every colour of the rainbow, and the thought of him made Sherlock Holmes' heart heavier and lighter all at once. That same heart the ex-army doctor had believed was cold and hard softened and accelerated whenever he thought of the man in tweed with the waistcoat, which was far from being a rarity. Sherlock had only seen him for about three minutes and grown so attached to him in that time. He wished he had known how much he'd need to see him later on; he could have easily stopped him from getting into the blue box, demanded answers before the most remarkable man in the high-functioning sociopath's life disappeared. Why didn't he stop him from leaving? The pain caused by his absence was becoming so deeply unbearable. He had never experienced such a thing before.  
Could it be that the bow tie man felt the same? That the bow tie man was looking for Sherlock just as much as he was for him? Did the bow tie man's heart also yearn to see him? Was it so hard for him to find him again? If Sherlock couldn't track him down, why would "The Oncoming Storm" be able to track _him_ down? Maybe they _were _connected somehow, and Sherlock was in such a pain because it wasn't only his own solitude.  
Of course, there was also John... John's obliviousness about the whole thing comforted him. Sherlock never mentioned the bow tie man to him and concealed his sorrow at any moment he felt observed. It made it less hard for him. Still, all he managed to conceal was _why_ he was so upset.  
The few times they still spoke made him forget, but he had locked himself into the world of "The Oncoming Storm" and all he wanted was for the man he most longed to see in the universe to be in there, too. The few times Sherlock slept, he dreamt of meeting him again, of the bow tie man taking him by the hand and showing him the inside of that mysterious police box. He explained to him how the green device worked, and then, they would both disappear with the box, and fly away from London and from his work and from the dullness that was Earth. Some nights John came along too, but he was always the unimportant part of the dream.  
If one would look at Sherlock while he dreamt, they would find him with a wide smile upon his face. A smile that he never wore whilst conscious. He was never this happy when he was awake, because every morning, he had to come to the cold realization that the dreams of the man with the green device who had stolen his heart since the very beginning had still not returned to save him from this nightmare. Filled with melancholia Sherlock continued his day-to-day life. The life he had chosen to avoid boredom was now drowning him in it, with only someone who could throw him a life raft and revive him. But that someone wouldn't come. And so he was left floating in the infinite, lonely ocean, drifting away from everyone he had once cared for. Of course John had tried to pull him out of his trance, with little success. Sherlock was still obsessed with the idea that if he would talk to anyone about the man who had visited him that day in March he would lose him completely, because then the tweed man would not only live within his fantasy but within the fantasy of every other person whom he told about him. He couldn't let that happen. He couldn't let the one thing that kept him going right now, the only hope he still had slip away from him any more. He knew he was out there somewhere looking for him, and he knew that one day they would meet again and everything would fall back into place. Quite simply: the bow tie man was Sherlock's and Sherlock was the bow tie man's.  
The moment he realized this a thought crossed his mind, which at first he didn't want to admit. But soon it became too clear for him to act as if it wasn't true:

Sherlock Holmes had fallen in love with the bow tie man.


	5. Where are you?

From the moment on that he admitted his love to himself, the pain got better, and worse. He felt a stone lifted from his heart when he could stop pretending, which was a great relief. However, the fact that he now knew what this man meant to him, made the thought of living another day without him grow exponentially. The only comfort he could find was that he knew that there was someone else out there who felt the same. And so, Sherlock kept solving cases, drinking tea, and doing experiments, so that no one would notice his suffering. John did notice, but never dared ask what the problem was. Sherlock wouldn't have told him anyway. His flat mate would never believe him if he told him that he, the consulting detective, who had sworn to divorce himself from emotions, was lovesick.  
He longed to see that dark hair, those grey eyes with just a hint of hazel, that worried look, those steady hands. The bow tie man was the only person that he had ever met who didn't seem to have any flaws or imperfections. His existence was surreal, and sometimes he wished it wasn't real at all. But no, "The Oncoming Storm" was just as real as his heartache and his loneliness was.  
"Where are you?" he constantly whispered to himself,  
"Why aren't you returning? Don't you know that I need you?" Having to say those words, over and over again felt like punches in the face. Not long after that, Sherlock started buying spray paint at stores and illegally painted walls with messages or hints hoping it would make him easier to spot for the bow tie man.  
Soon, a series of odd graffiti messages showed up throughout a half-mile radius of 221B Baker Street:  
"THE ONCOMING STORM, THIS IS WHEN AND WHERE I AM. PLEASE COME. 08/07/2013", "WHERE ARE YOU BOW TIE MAN?", "HOW DOES THE BLUE BOX WORK?"...

The detective and his blogger sat at the breakfast table in silence, avoiding as much eye contact as possible.  
"I know it was you, Sherlock." The dark-haired man's head snapped up into focus.  
"Sorry?" John pulled out a newspaper from under his plate, flattened it and showed the head line to the man sitting opposite him.  
"MYSTERIOUS GRAFITI MESSAGES IN CENTRAL LONDON"  
Sherlock stared at it for a moment.  
"And why do you presume it was me?" He said not looking at him, as if John weren't worthy.  
"Well, it says here that only someone with access to police records could've made so many in such short time without ever getting caught..."  
"That in no way implies me."  
"I found the cans of paint in the rubbish, Sherlock!"  
The detective observed him in a suspicious manner.  
"Sherlock, what are you planning?" Sherlock bit his lip and said nothing, leaving the table and going back to your room.  
"_Sherlock_! Tell, me what you're doing!" Sherlock stopped in the hall way, thought a little, then turned around.  
"Looking for someone."  
"For _who_?"  
"I wish I knew." He went back to his room in a bored and sad manner.  
_It even made the_ _headlines_!  
Didn't the bow tie man see them? His messages couldn't have been any clearer, and still no sign of the man in tweed. Did he perhaps not even care? It hurt thinking about the fact that the only person he had ever loved in his entire life, did not love him back. After all, if he did, wouldn't a man who could simply appear and disappear in that way have already found him? His eyes began to tear up at the thought of seeing him again, and the other man not feeling it as well, so he opened his laptop and concentrated on the monitor. He had one unread e-mail from an unknown address, with the subject:  
I CAN HELP YOU FIND WHO YOU'RE LOOKING FOR

His heart rose up, up, up, up, _up, __**up **_as he read, like when you're at the highest part of the rollercoaster and then

_d__oooooooowwwwwwn _when he opened the e-mail.


	6. Dear Mr Sherlock Holmes

Dear Mr Sherlock Holmes,

After the events of the past weeks, I have noticed that you must be searching for him (you know who I'm talking about). Upon seeing your messages to him, I took the liberty of researching you a little further. Your Internet history is basically only the words "The Oncoming Storm" and "Police Box" typed into search engine, after search engine.  
You must be one of the few who've seen him. If you want any chance to see him again, reply.

Regards,  
Andrew McAdams

Sherlock first hesitated at the fact that this Mister McAdams had hacked into his computer system and stalked his internet history, but the urge to see the bow tie man pushed him to answer as quickly as possible:

Dear Mr McAdams,

You are right, I am searching for him. I met him four months ago just once, but he didn't show up again.  
Please tell me all you've found out about him, I need to know. How can you track him down? What is his real name?

Please reply quickly,  
Sherlock Holmes

Sherlock hit send. Maybe he would see the bow tie man again; maybe everything would be just like in his dream. Could it be? He had once heard that dreams told the future. Utter nonsense of course, but the idea that what happened in his mind at night would soon be reality pleased him in an inexplicable way. Not long after having sent his message, a reply from the mysterious Mister McAdams followed. With impatience Sherlock clicked it and read:

Dear Mr Holmes,

I am sorry but explaining it all to you would be too complicated, and I'm risking that others might see this. I personally prefer meeting you, where at the very least if someone is listening in, they will not have access to my files. How does the café beneath your flat, tomorrow, 8 AM sound to you?

Regards,  
Andrew McAdams

P.S. His name is the Doctor

Sherlock stared at the screen in awe.  
_The Doctor_. It was the perfect name for him. He couldn't even understand how he hadn't come up with it himself. He _was_ the Doctor. No name would ever fit better than that. He was completely unable to contain his excitement. Sherlock Holmes would soon know more about the Doctor, _his_ Doctor. He couldn't even grasp it. After four months of loneliness, finding out nothing, when he'd almost given up all hope of ever meeting the man he loved again, he had finally found out something about him. His name was the Doctor. And soon, very soon, he would know even more. Sherlock got up from the bed he was lying on and jumped up in happiness. Before he would've thought he was being ridiculous, but now, being as blissful as he was could only be expressed that way. He almost forgot to reply.

Dear Mr McAdams,

I will be waiting for you at 8 AM in the café.

Looking forward to meeting you,  
Sherlock Holmes

Sherlock closed his laptop and checked the time. It was only ten in the morning. He didn't want to wait twenty-two hours to find out more. The more he knew about the mysterious Doctor, the more he wanted to know. He wondered why so few people had seen him; could this be destiny? That thing that he had not believed in six months ago? In just a few months time, Sherlock had ceased to disbelieve in love; could someone do the same with destiny or anything else? This man had already changed his perception of the world so much; could he do it even more than Sherlock had up to now thought was possible? Of course he could, he was _the Doctor. The Doctor_ was capable of anything. After all, he had made an emotionless man fall in love with him, only after knowing him for three minutes. Every second Sherlock waited for the digital clock in his bedroom to strike 08:00 he fell more deeply for the Doctor and into the hole of incredible loneliness. The thought of having to spend another whole day without the Doctor was like a knife through his chest: cold, painful and sharp. A tear escaped his eye and he reached for his heart while falling sideways onto the bed.  
"Doctor, please save me. Doctor, please save me. Doctor, please save me..." the consulting detective whimpered softly into the cushion, until there was a knock on the door by John, telling him that there was a new case for them. So yet again, Sherlock put on his mask of emotions, hid away the man who was irrevocably in love with "The Oncoming Storm", and left the bedroom.

That day was the second hardest day of his life.


	7. The Man Behind The Bow Tie

Sherlock awoke the next morning, his being conscious shattering the dream of the Doctor come up right next to his face that he could almost-  
But he continued to smile.  
The dream had been wonderful. Today was not nearly as wonderful, but still, wonderful. Today he would find out more. Today was his day.  
Quickly he got out of his unexciting bed and got dressed, watching the clock go from seven thirty to twenty to seven. Fumbling with his fingers and fully dressed to leave, he waited in the kitchen, staring at his microscope but not ever looking into the lens. He didn't go down yet because he knew being on site would make him even more impatient, and chances were Mister McAdams would be late, as they always were. Just then, John came down. Sherlock looked at him in an alarmed matter, as if he'd just been caught doing something bad. That was ridiculous, he wasn't doing anything wrong. The only odd thing about him at the moment was that he was wearing his coat and scarf for no visible reason.  
"Going anywhere?" John asked, crossing his arms.  
"Yeah... Just going to pop out for some fresh air."  
"And what are you waiting for?"  
"I... I didn't want to leave without you knowing I was gone." Quickly he got up and walked passed John before he could ask any further questions.  
"See you in a bit then." The detective didn't reply. Once the door was closed behind him, he checked the time: 07:48. Still twelve whole minutes. Sighing, Sherlock skipped down the stairs two steps at a time while whistling (he couldn't believe he was actually whistling (or skipping, for that matter)), opened the front door and took a deep breath of the cool air. The sun was shining that morning for once. After waiting a couple seconds just soaking in the sunlight, the dark-haired man took two steps to his left, and was now standing in front of Speedy's Café.  
After having taken a table and ordered a coffee, Sherlock drummed his fingers on the table, carefully watching the door for any man to enter.  
The time was seven fifty-five. The next five minutes passed sluggishly but the moment the clock struck eight, a man entered the café.  
Immediately, Sherlock sat up straight and hid his excessive heart rate to the best of his abilities. The man was mid-forties, well built, his head beginning to bald. He wore a red tie and a suit, covered in a light brown trench coat. In his left hand, he held a leather file folder. Sherlock raised his eyebrows, deducing a fair amount about him. However, none of the information he recovered was important, let alone interesting so he set them aside. The man looked around the room and let his eyes rest on the consulting detective. He smiled slightly and came closer.  
"Mister Holmes," said Andrew McAdams while stretching out his arm to him welcomingly. Sherlock shook it. His hand wasn't as warm as _his_ would've been.  
"Mister McAdams, I presume." McAdams only gave another smile as a reply and took the seat facing Sherlock. As Sherlock's coffee arrived, the man opened his file and the high-functioning sociopath caught a glimpse of a photograph. It could only have been of the Doctor and he felt his heart jump at the sight of this man again. With self-control, he stopped himself from reaching for it immediately.  
"So, what do you know about him? Where is he from? How do you know him? What-" Sherlock broke off when McAdams rose his arm.  
"All in due time, Mister Holmes." Sherlock bit his lip and sat back in the chair, crossing his arms waiting for an explanation. The man in the trench coat began:  
"This man, 'the Doctor' as he calls himself, is not of our world." He had already prepared himself for something like this, so it came to him as no surprise.  
"D'you mean he isn't from our planet?"  
"Oh no, Mister Holmes, we're talking about a bigger picture here. This man, is from a different universe."  
Sherlock's eyes widened.  
"He is the last of a species long extinct, known as the Time Lords from the planet Gallifrey."  
"How do you know all this?" Sherlock demanded, finding it unfair how much information the other had.  
"Like you, I met him. We only met briefly, but in that time he saved Cardiff without anyone even knowing what had happened. However, to do so, he needed to create a rift there, between the two dimensions that must never touch. He created a direct link to the one in the 'other' Cardiff as you may say, making one able to access some of the information from the other, if one knew were the rift was located."  
"But how did he even get here in the first place?"  
"By accident. Sometimes the TARDIS does that."  
"The TARDIS?"  
"His blue police box."  
"The TARDIS..." Sherlock repeated almost blissfully. He then snapped out of it and focused again.  
"But if you can only access information about him directly from the link here how can you access information beyond the link there?"  
"There's an institute known as Torchwood based right next to it. It has most of the files about the Doctor."  
Sherlock needed some time to process it all. He bit his lip wondering what other questions he had.  
"What does he do?"  
"Basically, he goes around saving the universe, but... not _our _universe."  
It pained him to think that his Doctor was so far away from him. He wanted it to stop.  
"How do I find him again." It was a question but he said it more like an order. McAdams looked behind him to make sure no one was listening, then leaned in closer.  
"You're only hope is to travel to Cardiff and send him a message through the rift. I could assist you in that."  
Sherlock got up and finished his coffee, leaving change on the table.  
"Well then, looking forward to it, I'll be in touch." He started leaving the room, when a hand caught hold of his arm. Sherlock turned his head, finding McAdams holding onto it with a worried look.  
"Mister Holmes, as much as I promise to do it, should I not be able to convince you of the opposite, I have not come here because I want to assist you in finding the Doctor."  
Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows at him.  
"I have come here to warn you about him. He may seem nice, but he will only endanger you and the people around you. Take this from the only person in this universe who _really_ knows him." Sherlock tugged himself free and left the café without a word.

Never had he wanted to forget something someone had said that much. 


	8. Decisions

The door to 221B slammed shut. John jumped up and turned towards where the sound was coming from. Sherlock was flinging his coat off and throwing it to the floor. The blonde man yet again said nothing. Sherlock frowned slightly as he walked over to the table where John was sitting.  
What did McAdams mean? How was the Doctor dangerous? Was he saying that Sherlock's love for "The Oncoming Storm" was wrong?  
What did he know about it all?!  
_More than you do_, logic interjected.  
_Sod off!_ said his heart.  
_Shut up, both of you!_ the rest screamed, _we have to decide: are we going to Cardiff, or not?_  
Common sense and desire both screamed 'of course not' and 'of course' simultaneously. As always, common sense had the better arguments, but, as always, desire won this discussion.  
And so it was decided; Sherlock would go to Cardiff.  
The detective sat down on the chair next to John, not quite knowing what to say.  
"How was your walk?" John asked, though he seemed extremely disinterested about it all.  
"Um... Fine, I guess." He looked around sheepishly. There was a brief silence.  
"You do know I notice when you go into the café beneath us."  
Sherlock had no idea how to reply.  
"Wh...what do you mean?" John finally looked up and eyed him carefully.  
"I mean I've been noticing how weird you've been acting for the passed few months, and I think I have all the right to know!" He looked a little upset.  
Sherlock opened his mouth, closed it, then stared into space. Should he tell him? Why should he?! Why shouldn't he? What would John do? Laugh at him? Get angry? No, John wasn't like that...  
"I..." He didn't know how to finish that sentence. John eyes flickered at him with hope. _I have fallen in love._ "I'm going to Cardiff." John opened his mouth in surprise, then simply looked down and avoided eye contact with the consulting detective for a moment.  
"Why?" He finally said.  
"I've been summoned there. Interesting case." Sherlock said coolly, satisfied with the plausibility of his lie.  
"Okay, I'll come alo-"  
"No! You can't!" Sherlock interjected while holding his arms out. Then noticing what he was doing, he lowered them again in embarrassment. The dark-haired man cleared his throat and explained:  
"You're right, I've been a bit off, I just..." _I just need to find someone so desperately, I might die if I don't see him again _"I just need some time alone. I think this case will be a good thing. For both of us."  
John looked around thoughtfully, leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms.  
"Fine, do what you like."

That afternoon, Sherlock received a reply email from McAdams, concerning his wish to meet "The Oncoming Storm":

Mr Holmes, I will repeat to you one last time: The Doctor is dangerous, and the chances to find him again are nearly impossible anyway. Are you sure you want to do this?

Regards,  
Andrew McAdams

Sherlock's lips tightened again. He placed his fingers onto the computer and typed:

Why do you keep saying that?

But soon enough, he selected the sentence and deleted the highlighted text with a swift click of the backspace button. His light, vibrant eyes circled his bedroom one time, before he finally decided on what to write:

Yes, I am sure. Where and when shall we meet?

Regards,  
Sherlock Holmes

He hit the send button and only then really realized what he'd written. It hadn't been his brain typing. Not even the brain of the great Sherlock Holmes could react that fast. It was just everything in him. His heart, his gut, that tingling feeling in your fingers when the warmth returns to it after a snow day. It had just been automatic. Within a couple minutes a reply followed:

Dear Mr Holmes,

Very well then, suit yourself. But don't tell me I didn't warn you.  
Meet me at Cardiff Bay, in front of the opera house, 30/7/13, 16:00.

Good luck,  
Andrew McAdams.

Sherlock almost replied with "Looking forward to it" (which, by the way, would've been an understatement), but instead he just wrote:

Understood. SH

When he was finally on that train to Cardiff, for the first time, he was certain he could feel "The Oncoming Storm" needing him just as much.

He smiled.


	9. Cardiff

The dark-haired man jumped out the train in such a happy manner that he had to remind himself of who he was. He was Sherlock Holmes. But was he really? Despite the fact that he still had the name "Sherlock Holmes" he felt little like the man to whom that name was originally given. The old Sherlock would've frowned upon the happiness that the new Sherlock showed while walking along the platform and sitting in one of the city buses of Cardiff. The old Sherlock would've smacked him for departing England, exactly when a wonderful quintuple-murder had just happened in the East End. But the old Sherlock wasn't here, _was_ he?  
He was different. He could never go back. His heart, which indeed existed, had been stolen. Or maybe it wasn't stolen. Maybe it was repaired. Because, yes, the bow tie man not being present handicapped him in such an agonizing way, but the idea of him had fixed him. Taught him what love was. Turns out it's more than just a chemical defect.

The bus came to a stop in front of the opera house and Sherlock almost missed his station. He quickly got off and took a deep breath of the slightly salty breeze, emerging from the sea. It felt nice; fresher than London. Sherlock looked around and soon found a familiar figure, McAdams, standing in front of the opera house. The consulting detective made his way to the man in the trench coat, pushing past tourists and mumbling "sorry" to those whose faces were less annoying to look at.  
"I'm here," he whispered, out of breath to McAdams, "I'm here."  
"You're early," was all the man standing in front of him said. Sherlock checked the time on his watch. It was five to four.  
"Hardly," he replied.  
"Yes, well, you won't particularly like him if you value punctuality that much." Sherlock understood this as being one of McAdams many attempts to stop him from ever meeting the Doctor. Still, curiosity got the best of him so he couldn't quite ignore that comment.  
"What do you mean?"  
"The Doctor is well-known in the other universe, more than rarely for his tardiness." McAdams looked as if he was waiting for something, constantly glancing at his watch. There was a moment of silence between the two.  
"So, where are we headed?" Sherlock asked.  
"We're going to the basement of the opera house." And with that, Mr McAdams took off towards the opera house. Sherlock caught up to him with ease, however, was slightly surprised when McAdams turned right and walked all the way to the end of the long building. He turned around the corner to the back of the building, where there were only a few emergency exits and stopped at a seemingly random place. Sherlock watched in wonder as McAdams felt his way on the wall, as if he were looking for something. Suddenly the consulting detective heard a click sound and a door, which before had been so well concealed into the wall he hadn't noticed it, swung open. The men in the trench coat stepped aside.  
"Après vous," he said with that distinguished accent that told Sherlock this man knew little more words of French. Without thinking twice, Sherlock stepped through and saw but a dark corridor. McAdams followed and closed the door behind him. The last crack of light disappeared and Sherlock stood in the obscurity until suddenly he heard a _click_ and the hall way lit up, one lamp at a time, always going deeper and deeper into the cellar of the opera house. The consulting detective felt a tingling sensation in his toes as he felt how close he was to finding the Doctor. Maybe he was already here?  
McAdams took the lead and walked down the yellow-lit corridor and Sherlock followed him without hesitating. They walked and they walked and they walked, and it seemed like ages since they'd met, but when Sherlock checked his phone he saw that it was just one past four. With every second step he took a breath, and with every second breath he thought one word, and one word only: _Doctor._  
So another minute or two past by, where no one said a thing and Sherlock's only thought process was: step, step, breath, step, step, breath, _Doctor_, step, step, breath, step, step, breath, _Doctor_... The path took some odd curves and staircases but Sherlock was for once not at all focused on where he was going.  
320 steps, 160 breaths and 80 _Doctors_ later, they both stood in front of door. Sherlock watched McAdams with excitement while he searched his set of keys for the one that fit the lock.  
"Could you hurry please?" he asked, not caring how rude it was of him.  
"I told you, you won't like him if you are impatient." That shut him up. The smaller man finally found the key and unlocked the door.  
"Welcome to the closest thing we have to Torchwood." As Sherlock looked inside he found something far less impressive than what he'd expected. It was simply a small room with a desk and three monitors on it.  
"_Wow_..." he said, not being able to keep the sarcasm in.  
"Do you want to meet the Doctor or not, mister Holmes?"  
"Yes..." he mumbled and followed McAdams over to the monitors. He typed in a series of passcodes and then stepped away from the keyboard, gesturing to it with his hand.  
"Type in your message to him." Sherlock had thought of what he would say to the Doctor many times, but now that he could really write something to him, he was clueless. He started typing once McAdams turned away to give him privacy:  
I lov[back space] _no, tell him that in person_  
Bow tie man please come and sav[back space] _that's terrible written down as well  
_The Oncoming Storm, answer my que[back space] _no  
_My dearest Do[back space] _no_  
Hello[back space]_**no**_**.**

All he ended up typing was:  
You are needed. Please come soon. -Sherlock Holmes

As he hit send he turned back to McAdams.  
"So now what do we do?"  
"Now we wait."

Now they waited.


	10. His Dark Past

The wait was horrible. More horrible than the four months before he'd been waiting, because at least then he hadn't known so much about him. The message had to go out to the Torchwood computer in the parallel universe, and create a virus that would send the message out to the Doctor. But there was no guarantee it would arrive to him and even if so, he didn't have to answer.  
But deep down Sherlock knew, he just knew, that the Doctor was, like him, doing everything in his power to find his better half. He would show up.  
Soon.  
There were no chairs in the small room so all McAdams and Holmes did was sit against the damp walls of the cellar and wait some more. For something to happen. But nothing did. Sherlock took it upon himself to finally ask the other man a question he'd been wanting to ask for a long time:  
"What exactly makes you believe that the Doctor is dangerous, may I ask?" McAdams looked up at him with the most serious of faces Sherlock had seen on him.  
"His records."  
"There _are_ no records." McAdams gave a weak smile at that. "Not here, no."

"Okay, what kind of 'terrible' things are written in his records on the other side of the rift?" The man looked at him quite seriously.

"The Doctor has saved countless lives, rescued millions of civilizations and stopped the destruction of billions of planets from ever happening."  
"So why-"  
"But half of those destructions were originally planned out because of him. Half of those civilizations were endangered because of rage against him and..." Sherlock couldn't take much more of this. He didn't want to hear the rest.  
"I told you he was the last of his kind."  
"Stop it." He said harshly but his voice was cracking. Sherlock blinked a couple of times to keep his burning eyes from tearing.  
"The blood of an entire species, trillions of them at least, is on his hands. _His_ species. _His family_!"  
"SHUT UP!"

McAdams was silent but the room didn't fill with silence.  
Because in shock of how loudly Sherlock had screamed, someone who had been listening in fell backwards from the corner of the still opened door he had been peeking through. Sherlock was already angry enough, but being able to avoid the previous subject was relieving. He ran towards the doorway to see who had been eavesdropping them from the hallway.  
"Who are y..." Finally followed the silence as the consulting detective stared at the man lying on the ground beneath him.  
"_John?!_"


	11. The Storm Returns

"What the hell-" But Sherlock's words were cut off by a sound.  
A sound he had heard but once in is life, a sound he had longed to hear for the past four months. As he felt his curls blow into his face due to the breeze coming from behind him, Sherlock forgot all about his friend who had followed him to Cardiff and turned around. The wheezing sound of the materializing TARDIS felt like a symphony to him, and as it played, he closed his eyes and walked back into the room towards it.  
The horrible things McAdams had said about The Oncoming Storm washed away and subconsciously Sherlock lifted his arms to touch the magnificent blue wood. It was bluer than the last time. He was sure. He felt his mouth stretch and stretch and stretch until his smile could not be wider. The world around him ceased to exist. Some time past and the door opened.  
"Doctor," Sherlock whispered.

And there he was. The bow tie man, The Oncoming Storm, the Doctor. _His_ Doctor. Sherlock's heart felt lighter; lighter than it ever had before. Seeing this beautiful man's face again brought him into a state of such euphoria that he forgot all the things he wanted to say for a moment and just looked at him:  
Not a thing about him had changed. Still the same bowtie, the same waistcoat, the same dark tweed jacket covering it. Still perfect.  
"I..." He struggled to put the words together, "I missed you." He took a step closer and stared into the Time Lord's blue-hazel eyes. He was so beautiful.  
But.  
Why wasn't he smiling? Was he not happy to see Sherlock? _No... it can't be._  
"You said I am needed. What's going on?" the Doctor said, his tone worried.  
"I... that's all. I need you." He could feel the tears swelling up again and he hated it but still it happened.  
"Sherlock Holmes needs _me_? Now, what sort of a case could you have that needs _my_ help?" He said with a grin. Sherlock did not find that funny.  
"I'm not on a case. I just need you." The Doctor's smile disappeared and he looked at Sherlock carefully.  
"What do you mean?"  
"I mean," Sherlock took a deep breath and said a thing he would have never said if he had remembered that both McAdams and John were watching, "I mean I love you." It was the most liberating thing to tell him this, and Sherlock closed his eyes waiting for the other's reply.  
The bow tie man said nothing.  
The consulting detective opened them again and saw the Doctor sadly - no _guiltily_ - looking past him to the wall. The idea of something upsetting The Oncoming Storm made Sherlock uneasy. After some time he dared say something:  
"What's wrong?"  
"I've done it again," said the Doctor and walked past him, looking around the room, looking at everything except for Sherlock.  
"What have you done again?" He took his chance to wipe his eyes while the Time Lord wasn't looking.  
"I let a human fall in love with me again."

Sherlock did not think about what that probably meant about the Doctor's feelings for him. He didn't think about the bleeding wound in his heart the man opposite him had cut open with those words. He refused to think about anything, but the one thing he wanted to do most now, the one thing that would make all the hurt go away;  
he grabbed the man by the waistcoat and pulled him towards him, not trying very hard to do this in a gentle manner. He then took the bow tie man by the head and pulled him even closer so that he could press his lips on him.  
Sherlock's body burst into flames as he felt The Oncoming Storm's warm breath against his face. It was as if he was breathing life into him, as if up until now he hadn't been alive. The kiss was like lightning. Beautiful, electrifying, frightening–  
–And it only lasted a fraction of a second, because almost immediately after making mouth-to-mouth contact with the consulting detective the Doctor flinched away.

And that was the worst part. He flinched. He tried to leave. He did not enjoy it. The wound in Sherlock's heart ripped some more, until it wasn't ripping, it was tearing and whatever the Doctor had fixed in him before, broke again. The bow tie man took a step back and in that moment Sherlock burst into tears, heartbroken, alone. He cried and cried and cried, because the bow tie man was here and well and perfect but didn't want him. It hurt him. Hurt him more than being apart from him. More than those terrible things McAdams had told him about him. He just sat on the floor snorting on the floor waiting for the pain of love to end. But that's the thing about pain. It never ends. It just takes a new form.

He finally understood that name he had researched so thoroughly and so often. He had always been a storm, constantly approaching, promising to put an end to the drought, only to flood him, drown him and hold him under water.

"This is exactly what I wanted to avoid." It wasn't the Doctor speaking.  
It was John.  
John was there too.  
Sherlock looked up and he couldn't have cared less about what a mess his face must've looked like.  
"What?" he asked while wiping his nose on his coat sleeve.  
"I didn't want you to get hurt like this."  
"You thought I was going on a case," he mumbled in such an incomprehensive way, but still John understood. He lent Sherlock his hand as he spoke.  
"No, I knew you were going to meet someone." As Sherlock got up, the idea that John, his friend, whom he trusted had been reading his e-mails angered him.  
"Those were private conversations!" he roared accusingly.  
"I never read any of your 'oh so very secret' e-mails. I just knew that you were..." he didn't finish the sentence and stared at the Doctor, who wasn't saying a word, watching their conversation closely.  
"How?! I never told anyone that I... love him."  
"Sherlock, I think we both agree that I know a hell of a lot more about love than you do."  
"Yes, but..."  
"And that's the first rule about love: It goes without saying. I saw it in you, that emptiness, that _hurt_. You didn't need to tell me where it came from because I knew it. We all know it. Almost everyone knows it except you."  
Sherlock rethought the past four months.  
"So then... why did you never say a thing? Why didn't you ask me who I was so upset about?"  
John gave him a half-smile.  
"Because I'm your friend... and I figured that you would say it eventually. I was a little disappointed when you didn't and I guess I just had enough and decided to follow you. I wanted to make sure you'd be all right... but I was also being selfish and wanted to know who it was."  
And, surprisingly, Sherlock understood.  
"I forgive you... I should've told you." John smiled. Sherlock managed a smile as well and they hugged each other. Not a hug like the one he'd shared with the Doctor while their brief kiss. It didn't set him ablaze or make him feel like fireworks were inside him but it was warm and nice. His heart was still broken, but maybe not quite as broken.

Eventually he pulled away and turned back to the Doctor. He slightly gestured his mouth.

"I'm sorry for… all that."  
"That's okay."  
The Oncoming Storm smiled warmly and Sherlock could've swarm the whole room lit up a little.  
"When I first met you... you said that I wasn't possible... I thought that by that you meant that you..." he finally asked, a tiny spark of hope still in him.  
"That you were unique. Or something along those lines?"  
He nodded lightly.

"Everyone's unique Sherlock."

"But that isn't what you meant," the consulting detective said harshly.  
"Well... you see, in my universe there is a book. The name of the book is Sherlock Holmes." It upset me so much that he said that sentence for something as stupid as this.  
"So someone in a book has the same name as me. _So!_?"  
"It's more than that, he _is_ you. He lives in 221B Baker Street, he has a friend called John Watson, he solves murders. The only things that do not coincide is that _this_ Sherlock Holmes lives in Victorian England."  
"So I'm not special to you or anything... I'm just a work of fiction brought to life to you," he spat the words out and took a step back.  
"Sherlock, please, I just..." The Doctor lifted up his arms, trying to get Sherlock to come back.  
"You just don't love me. I know." He stared at the floor, his expression hard.  
"It's more complicated than that... People, good people, have died because they were too close to me."  
"I might die if I'm too far from you." The Doctor gave a weak laugh and swung his arm around Sherlock. A small flame started burning again within him but he refused to let it go any further than that.  
"Ah, Sherlock, look I may only know you from the books, but if you are anything like him, which we've previously established, then I know you're gonna be all right." He managed to look into the Time Lord's eyes again.  
"I'll survive. That doesn't mean I'll be all right."  
The Doctor looked down and didn't reply. A loud noise came from the police box. He turned his head to it and then back to Sherlock.  
"Listen, Sherlock, I'm really sorry but... the TARDIS isn't really supposed to be in this universe and it would be much better for it to go back and-"  
"Fine, then go," Sherlock said coldly.  
"Well if you want I could show you the inside?" The consulting detective considered the offer for a moment.  
"No."  
"Why not?" the bow tie man asked. Sherlock turned away from him and was headed towards the exit of the building. He stopped in the doorway and turned to the side so that the Time Lord would hear him better but was still not visible to him:  
"It's the eye of the storm; false hope that the pain is over now." He didn't look back when he heard the click of a door, or when the wheezing started again. The Doctor was gone.

That was the last time.


	12. Epilogue

Sherlock Holmes was sitting in the corridor, leaning against the wall, his best friend quietly waiting for something to happen beside him. McAdams had left an hour or so ago, about the time the Oncoming Storm had left this universe for good. Sure, he wasn't completely gone. Sherlock could still contact him again and he probably even would come, but what was the point if he didn't love him back? What was the point in anything if the feeling wasn't mutual? He had just wasted four months of his life on this man and nothing. _Nothing._ After some time, he finally spoke:  
"John?" The ex-army doctor looked up immediately, as if he'd been expecting this for a while.  
"Yes, Sherlock?"  
"As I believe you have far more experience with this than I do; how does one mend a broken heart?" John lightly laughed and got up, handing a hand to Sherlock to help him up.  
"Ah well, there are a few different theories about that," he explained, "But if you ask me it takes three things: A friend, a beer," Sherlock managed a weak smile as he stood up, "but mostly, time."  
"Time?"  
"Yes. A broken heart knows how to fix itself, Sherlock, it just needs patience."  
"So you mean, it gets better after this?" John didn't reply. He just patted Sherlock's shoulder and led him out of the cellar.

The first nights back at 221B were horrific. He'd dream about him and would wake up in tears and covered in sweat. John came to him, took care of him. He calmed him down and got him to sleep. During the day Sherlock would be gloomy and even slightly depressed but still he solved case after case and gradually his life refrained from being grey and returned to colour as the memory of The Oncoming Storm became more distant. It was horrible but that's because mending a heart is as agonizing of a process as it sounds but with a little help from a friend (and the occasional beer) it finally ended after a few months. He returned to apathy, where he felt more comfortable, but he was just a little different. Perhaps he could find someone new now, then again the thought of there being _someone else_, someone even slightly comparible to the Doctor was doubtful. But his pain was mostly gone and that's what counted.

The storm was finally over.

_**A/N: Well, that may or may not be my last Wholock ever completed and I am in a way sad but also have a sense of closure now. Anyways, I hope you enjoyed it and special thanks to the awesome **__**Fandemonium-in-the-streets**____**for the continued support :D Thanks a lot for reading and if you'd like leave a review, it would really mean a lot to me 3**_


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